


Maybe Chivalry Isn't Dead

by raphae11e



Category: BioShock 1 & 2 (Video Games)
Genre: (Big Daddies count as monsters right? Poor lads), (Delta does help but mostly he watches lol), Clothed Sex, Developing Relationship, Fantasizing, Frottage, Heavy Petting, Human/Monster Romance, M/M, Masturbation, Size Difference, Size Kink, Strength Kink, Voyeurism, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:55:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26029081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raphae11e/pseuds/raphae11e
Summary: “I just mean you’re different, is all. Knight in shinin’ armor and all that. Well,” he gestures to the blood and grime caked to Delta’s suit with one hand, “maybe notshinin’, but you get the idea.”
Relationships: Augustus Sinclair/Subject Delta
Comments: 6
Kudos: 107





	Maybe Chivalry Isn't Dead

**Author's Note:**

> I literally forgot that I finished this fic like two whole years ago and didn't post it. Amazing!!! Well here's a special surprise for y'all. ;^) Enjoy!

It had started out, Sinclair thinks, as curiosity. 

That alone should have been a red flag right from the start. Big Daddies, by nature, don’t get _curious._ Back in Rapture’s heyday, he’d never seen the hulking creatures bat a (figurative) eye at anything-- least of all a regular old Rapture businessman like his good self. The most emotion they were able to muster up only came in the form of anger, and even then, only when their little girls were in danger. 

Interacting with Delta at first had been no different. A bit like guiding a large, metal, heavily armed ox: Delta destroys an awful lot, Sinclair talks an awful lot, and together they have so far managed to make sense of the crumbling labyrinth that is Rapture’s halls. Now though, he’s starting to think that maybe there’s more than he expected hidden under that diving helmet. Because ever since they’d met face to face, Delta has been acting… unusual.

He initially chalks it up to the novelty of encountering someone who doesn’t want you dead on sight. God knows both of them have seen their fair share of hostility, and having each other’s company is a welcome change. This metal man, though, seems downright enamored by the concept. While Sinclair is certainly nowhere near a Little Sister, that doesn’t seem to matter all that much to Delta. They get caught in a spat with splicers and, when a bullet grazes him as they make their escape, the Big Daddy is at his side faster than he can blink. They have to cross a vast expanse of flooded hallway and, upon realizing how deep it is, Delta carries him across with ease. 

He’s being treated like a particularly large housecat-- which might be insulting, if only Sinclair wasn’t so fascinated by the whole situation.

Actions speak louder than words, as they say. Truth be told, he doesn’t think that Delta really needs words in the first place; all those poignant pauses, those sidelong glances that he can sense even through the frosted glass of the man’s helmet. It’s enough to send his skin prickling, being watched so closely.

Sinclair considers himself well-versed in the language of amorous pursuits, and he likes to think that he knows the difference between someone looking at him, and someone _looking_ at him. The notion that Delta might fit into the latter category had occurred to him, but he’d been sure to push it from his mind. Only years of isolation in a watery coffin like Rapture could have caused him to dream up something so outlandish. But after watching in awe as Delta had helped him bandage a bullet wound before _petting_ him-- just once, hesitantly, an entire hand covering Sinclair’s knee-- well, that’s about as good a sign as any.

Imagine that: a Big Daddy, smitten with him. Andrew Ryan sure _had_ chosen the impossible for this fair city.

“You know, chief, I’m startin’ to think that when they made you, they left a few screws loose.”

Delta turns his huge head at the comment, ever silent, radiating an aura of considering calm. The gaze Sinclair is presumably being fixed with doesn’t _feel_ accusatory, but it still makes him wince.

“No offense,” he tacks on far too late. “I just mean you’re different, is all. Knight in shinin’ armor and all that. Well,” he gestures to the blood and grime caked to Delta’s suit with one hand, “maybe not _shinin’,_ but you get the idea.”

They’ve holed up in Pharaoh’s Fortune while they wait for a pack of splicers to move on by. Delta could probably deal with the threat just fine on his own, but at Sinclair’s request, they had stopped. That was another thing: Big Daddies weren’t the type to idle when they had a set goal in mind. Delta himself had come off the Atlantic Express like a bat out of Hell. Now, though, he doesn't seem to mind acquiescing to his human companion, regardless of the context.

Now they’re sitting-- well, Sinclair is-- and engaging in what he thinks may approximate to a conversation.

“They make all of you tin men for the same purpose, but you’re the first I’ve seen to really embrace the role,” he explains. “Can’t imagine why that’s so.” 

Delta seems to think about this. Then he inclines his head down, flexing the fingers of his left hand. The Greek symbol engraved there flashes with the movement.

“Yeah, the Alpha series. You were part of an experimental line, sure. But that ain’t all.” Sinclair shrugs. He’d love to give the man some answers, but for all his reach in Rapture, he never did quite reach _that_ far. “Guess you just got a lucky break,” he says. 

There’s a pause, long and introspective, as there often are in one-sided exchanges. Vaguely, Sinclair wishes for a smoke, or a drink, or anything to occupy himself with while he waits for another comment to cross his mind. Delta, for his part, is still staring down at his hands. There’s a single-minded intensity there that is characteristic of Big Daddies, but is colored with something distinct and unique-- something _him._ Sinclair wonders just how much the man is taking his words to heart.

“Easy now. Don’t wear yourself out thinkin’ about it.”

Delta gaze seems to finally refocus once more. Ever so slightly, he tilts his head, shoulders slumping, as if to say, _How can I not?_

Fair enough. He has no leverage to argue the contrary. Whatever Delta has experienced-- back when he was someone, and not yet _this--_ is far beyond anything Sinclair could relate to. He’s had his fair share of struggles, but he won’t claim to know what it’s like to have your insides scrambled and your identity erased. Even with all his flaws, he’s quite attached to his personality, his charm, _and_ his good looks, thank you very much.

Thinking on all of this is more sobering than he would’ve liked. So, for both his sake and for Delta’s, he offers up a smile. “For what it’s worth,” he says, “I’m glad we met. I don’t think I’d have made it this far without you, sport.” 

If anything, he’d have expected another long stare and another long silence in response. Instead, Delta makes a noise that sounds an awful lot like a whale-- deep and low and mournful by nature-- that peters out into a rumbling growl. It feels like the beginning of an earthquake, and Sinclair goes rigid at the noise. 

Until Delta starts moving towards him. And suddenly the situation is very, _very_ far from sobering.

“Whoa, whoa--” Despite all the time they’ve spent together, anything that large moving towards him _that_ quickly is more than a little disconcerting. Sinclair rises from his chair with what he hopes is a sufficient amount of composure and steps away. Almost immediately, his back meets a wall.

Both of them freeze. Sinclair, hands still up in a gesture of surrender, cranes his neck to look into the other man’’s “face.” Delta, tall enough that he blocks out the garish casino lighting like a miniature eclipse, looks right back.

“Was it something I said?” he asks. His heart is hammering hard against his ribs, and he wonders if Big Daddies are equipped with superior hearing as well. If Delta can hear the way his breath stutters when one huge hand reaches for him with a frankly infuriating lack of urgency.

To his surprise, Delta’s hand is… warm. Maybe a strange thing to notice, but considering the way his face is currently being cradled in one huge palm, a thumb resting at the hinge of his jaw, Sinclair thinks the observation is warranted.

“…Um.” It isn’t often that he finds himself at a loss for words. “Are you… alright? Delta?”

Using the name seems to have been a good choice, because the Big Daddy makes a noise akin to distant thunder, only distinctly more pleased. Another hand enters Sinclair’s field of vision and comes up to rest gently on top of his head. It strokes his hair, the motion halting and unsure. 

_Oh._ The final pieces slide into place, and to even his own surprise, Sinclair finds himself coloring at the revelation. _Well I’ll be damned._ Even after he’d seemingly cemented his opinion on Delta’s interest in him, he hadn’t thought that it’d turn out to be actually _true._ Let alone that something would come of it. 

His lack of response, positive or negative, seems to complicate things. Delta rumbles and cocks his head again in a silent question. If his face had been visible, Sinclair is sure that he’d be frowning. 

“I’m, ah--” The weight of those hands forces him to lean back and brace himself against the wall. All of a sudden, his tongue feels like it’s made of sandpaper. “I’m flattered. Really, I am.” He smiles, wobbly but no less authentic. “Nice of you to take interest in an old dog like me.”

Delta replies with a hum. The hand in his hair moves to carefully cradle the back of his neck; the one at his jaw slides down to press against the front of his shirt, just over his heart. It rests there for a moment, no doubt feeling how Sinclair’s pulse is still racing, blood thrumming in his ears. Then it continues down before finally coming to rest at his hip.

Opening his mouth to make another comment-- something suave or sly or anything that might make him feel like he has a _handle_ on this situation-- Sinclair is interrupted by the slow movement of Delta bending at the knees, bringing them closer to eye level. And, unceremoniously, a thigh is pressed gently but insistently between his legs.

For a moment, his mind is wiped utterly blank. Then, when the world comes rushing back to him, every sensation seems to have magnified tenfold. He is distinctly aware of the fingers at his nape, and how the surprisingly soft fabric of Delta’s gloves is raising gooseflesh in their wake. He can feel the way sweat is already making his shirt stick to his skin, the heat of it contrasting sharply with the cool metal of the diving suit. His hip is still being held in place with ease-- which, while thoughtful, is the exact _opposite_ of helpful. Not if he’s supposed to do anything about the sudden heat and pressure against his quickly hardening cock.

“ _Jesus_ Almighty.” Eyes screwed shut, Sinclair reaches out blindly to brace himself against the Big Daddy’s chest. His feet are just barely touching the ground like this. The thought makes him shudder, toes curling inside his wingtip shoes.

Though it’s the same as always, Delta’s silence somehow manages to sound _smug._

“T-To be honest,” Sinclair says, a breathless laugh in his voice, “I thought you were gonna maybe ease us into this more careful-like. Wasn’t expectin’ to start at the deep end.”

There’s a ponderous murmur in response. The hands tighten their grip, and the rest of the hulking body before him goes rigid. Uncertainty, clear as day. 

Sinclair raps his knuckles against a tarnished breastplate. “Go on, then,” he coaxes. “Don’t go leavin’ me high and dry.”

Apparently, that’d been the signal Delta had needed. Both hands move to encircle his waist, fingers pressing against the small of his back as he’s pulled forward. It’s only maybe an inch or so, but no less torturous, the friction of it causing one long lick of heat to travel up his spine. Delta is, obviously, far from a small man; even through the thick fabric of his suit, his thighs feel corded out of iron, bulky enough that they force Sinclair to splay even further. 

His balance is all but ruined by this new position. His insides feel like they’ve melted, and he can’t quite seem to catch his breath-- but it would be disingenuous at best to say he isn’t thoroughly enjoying himself. 

They’re close enough now for Sinclair to lean forward and press his forehead against the cool metal covering Delta’s chest. His own body feels practically feverish in comparison. Fingers curling, searching for a hold on all those interlocking parts, he freezes as a hand fists itself in the back of his shirt and _pulls_.

“H-hey, hold on there now--” He shivers as cold air meets his exposed skin. The hold on his hip seems to be following the same motion, pulling upwards and trying to untuck his shirt with fingers far too large for such a delicate task. Fortunately he has just enough leverage that he’s able to reach back and lay a hand over Delta’s. “Let me do that, son,” he says. “I don’t need you mussin’ up the one clean shirt in all of Rapture.” 

Delta, bless his soul, allows himself to be guided away and instead settles for keeping them balanced as Sinclair reaches for his collar. He loosens his tie and shrugs out of his suspenders, fumbling briefly with the buckle of his belt. In the end, he decides against removing his shirt and just leaves it unbuttoned. Not only is Rapture the same temperature as Hell frozen over, but he-- God forbid-- feels just the slightest bit self-conscious when being watched so closely by someone like Delta. Someone with a hidden face and enough grip strength to snap his spine in two like a toothpick.

Normally, Sinclair prefers his trysts to be more… sophisticated, shall he say? Cultured? Human? But those are qualities you’d be hard pressed to find in the underwater city of today. And despite his misgivings, Delta’s hold on him is painfully gentle, almost reverent. That’s the kind of treatment that’s hard to come by even topside.

He spreads his arms and looks up to see his own smile reflected back at him in the glass of that glowing porthole. “Well?” he asks. “How’s that look?”

The air between them vibrates as another low moan seeps out of Delta. His hands are already creeping their way up over Sinclair’s hips, his waist, like he’s testing out the warmth and give there, utterly fascinated. Metal fingertips brush over his chest, cold as ice, and make his breath catch.

“Th-That’s what I thought.” Sinclair hears Delta rumble in a way that sounds something like laughter. “Come on now,” he replies, half-teasing, words rolling off his tongue slow as molasses, “Is that any way to treat-- _ohhh.”_

As it turns out, those huge hands are just the right size to splay out over his spine-- and when Delta’s palm smoothes down his back, pressing over each and every groove, Sinclair all but wilts. His hips twitch forward helplessly, seeking purchase against the thigh still pressed firmly between his legs. He throbs in the confines of his too-tight slacks and feels the thrum of his pulse at his throat.

Briefly but acutely, he wishes Delta had a mouth to bruise him with.

“You,” he gasps, “are somethin’ _else,_ chief.”

Making a noise like he’s been wounded, the Big Daddy suddenly presses forward, curling his massive body inwards, crowding the two of them up against the wall. It cocoons them in the scent of metal and leather and seawater. His already labored breathing is stifled even further, but Sinclair is, ah… too _distracted_ at the moment to care. All that movement has forced his back to arch, spine still cradled as he goes limp as a kitten, vision spotting from the way he’s made to grind down against Delta. He exhales like he’s been punched in the gut, and is surprised when steam doesn’t curl from his mouth. Lord, he feels downright _sick._

“G-Good. That’s, ah-- that’s better, absolutely, th-thank you.” He’s spouting absolute nonsense, but considering the less-than-orthodox circumstances, who could blame him? Just this once, it seems alright to allow his silver tongue to be dulled. A man can only take so much pleasure before he becomes half a fool, after all, and Sinclair has no intention of being anything less than greedy.

Tremors wrack his body, Delta’s voice vibrating through them both, and force him taut as a bowstring. He’s left panting in their wake and feeling like his brain’s been replaced with gauze. 

“Yeah, you an’ me both.” Sinclair thinks he’s maybe starting to get a handle on the metal man’s fairly limited range of noises. He isn’t certain that Delta can feel any sort of satisfaction, but the sound he’s now making-- one that can only be described as a _purr--_ sounds pleased as punch. 

The hand at Sinclair’s back makes another pass over his spine and sends him convulsing. It occurs to him then just how hard he is, the cloying, hot thrill of it almost painful. Seconds later both of his hands are at his fly and fumbling with the zipper. When he finally gets his cock free, it’s just about the best thing he’s ever felt in all his years of living. 

A slurred curse leaves his lips before he can think to stifle it, and Delta leans impossibly closer, head tilted to one side, as if he’s hanging onto every word. It’s a surprisingly endearing trait, Sinclair muses. Feeling boneless, unable to articulate _exactly_ what he’d like the Big Daddy to do all he can manage in response is, “Don’ stop.” 

Delta hums and gives a single, resolute nod. His hand resumes its stroking, its weight making Sinclair nearly crumple forward against his thigh-- a not at all unfortunate development, seeing as it puts more white-hot pressure on the length of his dick, caught between cool metal and warm flesh. It _is_ a little difficult to stroke himself at this angle, but Sinclair isn’t about to give up that easily. 

When he does manage to fit his hand into the confined space, fist closing around his cock with an obscenely wet noise, he sees stars.

“Ahh-- f- _fuck.”_ He bows his head, the weight of his limbs suddenly leaden. The little thrusts of his hips, muscles tense and trembling, combined with Delta’s petting and those _noises…_ “Y-You’re gonna be the death a’ me,” he gasps out. 

Rumbling, Delta slides his free hand around Sinclair’s flank and up, up… to rest over his collarbone. It takes only the barest of pressure for his head to be forced back, fingers gently encircling his neck. Not moving, not squeezing-- just resting there. Sinclair has to try once, twice, three times before he’s able to swallow. His fingers flex around his shaft and he wheezes like a man drowning. 

Then the Big Daddy leans forward to press them together, helmet to forehead. His silence, as always, speaks volumes. 

In his chest, Sinclair’s fluttering heart beats just that much harder. “I-If we decide to try this again at a later date--” He grits his teeth around a moan as fingers cup the curve of his ass and squeeze. “A-An’ perhaps in a more, ah, _accomodatin’_ locale…” Head tipping back to rest against the wall behind them, gaze half-lidded and lazy, he smiles. “… remind me to see what else those hands a’ yours can do.”

Maybe it’s poetic irony that, in the end, what does Sinclair in are his own words. No sooner has the suggestion been made than he’s imagining it: Delta pressing him against another wall or, better yet, some (mostly) clean sheets. The weight of the man above him, holding him down like he’s _nothing_ , even though a single word from Sinclair would make Delta stop on a dime. The press of those fingers against his insides, cold but quickly warming. He reckons they’re as thick as any cock; he could spear himself on them and Delta would let him, watching in interest and ardor as he was spread until--

Body going rigid in Delta’s grasp, he allows his eyes to flutter shut as he spills over his tight fist and twitching thighs. 

It is, perhaps, the most singularly _bizarre_ liaison he’s ever had. But even as he opens his eyes to see the faint, sickly glow of Delta’s gaze spilling over him, he finds that he doesn’t mind the absurdity. In fact, it’s almost… comforting. 

If that’s not a sign of Rapture rubbing off on him, he doesn’t know what is. And, for once, Sinclair is just fine with the outcome.


End file.
